


a girl is an open wound to hide

by phocionista



Series: In Any Other World [1]
Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Gen, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Mother-Daughter Relationship, Slice of Life, Unhealthy Relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-10
Updated: 2016-03-10
Packaged: 2018-05-25 20:26:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,654
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6208906
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/phocionista/pseuds/phocionista
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Susan Reynolds is seven years old and grappling with a girlhood of missed meals, city lot biking lessons, and her parents' increasingly cold marriage. Maria Reynolds is a good mama.<br/>-------<br/>This fic is part of an ongoing series of ficlets / one shots / vignettes centered around Maria Reynolds and her family, titled In Any Other World. It is mostly not chronological, entirely set in modern era but the plotline and timeline will jump around. An assorted box of mystery chocolates if you will, Reynolds edition.</p>
<p>The collection is a work in progress that will update whenever possible, if you like this one please stay around!</p>
            </blockquote>





	a girl is an open wound to hide

_You can’t hesitate. Trust yourself. Once Mama lets go, you keep your feet on the pedals, you understand?_

_Do I have to let go? I might fall._

Susan knows this is a dream because she isn’t falling. The parking lot is the same: asphalt stuck with potholes, gum and oil stains. Same bicycle too, fresh tires and the not so fresh coat of red paint still shiny enough to let her feel important. Grown up bikes are for important people, she’d been told. People who go places.

Her mama stands in a lemon yellow spring coat, watching, hands still outstretched as she lets go of the back of the bike. This is the part where Susan would usually falter. Her breath would catch in her throat, toes reaching to fumble at the pedals, missing, one sneaker scuffing over the ground before her hands flew from the bars in surprise. Her balance would shatter completely. Afterwards she would struggle to her feet, her skin stinging through denim. Each scraped knee was a secret she guarded fiercely. 

_Do I have to let go? I always fall._

_You can’t fly with your feet on the ground, love._

This time, maybe because she knows it is a dream, Susan lets go. Her feet leave the ground. _Trust yourself._ They are on the pedals now, balanced, steady, and she isn’t falling. Pride blooms in her chest at her mama’s smile. She isn’t falling! But for all her efforts, the bike isn’t moving either. _Concentrate._  Her leg muscles ache hopefully. The tires refuse to budge an inch.

_Why won’t it go?_

_You’re doing great, just keep pedaling._

Susan frowns, pushing harder. She is pedaling. Sweat coats her palms and drips down her neck from the effort of gripping the handlebars as she struggles to keep her breath steady, her balance firm. The wheels want to turn, she can feel it, so why won’t they?

_She isn’t getting it, is she Maria?_

Susan bites her tongue at the suddenness of his voice, refusing to flinch.

_Oh she’ll get it, don’t worry. She’s taking her time._

_She's not moving an inch. She's not ready for this._

_She’s ready._

_She looks scared._

I’m NOT scared.

_What is a grown girl like you doing scared of a bicycle?_

_Leave her be, James._

The sun is in her eyes. Maybe if the sun wasn’t in the way she could see what she was doing wrong. Maybe if the sun wasn’t in the way… Susan's spirit wilts. She is thirsty, hot, part of her wanting to shove the whole stupid bike in the closet, princess bows and all. The sun is growing now, she is certain of it, brightness filling her lungs instead of air. The weight of the bike pulls her tired body towards the burning pavement. _Maybe now I’ll fall._

_She looks ready to quit, why don’t we take her inside?_

_She’s not a quitter, James._

I’m tired. Her lips won’t even move to form the words she wants to say. The air is too thick to breathe and too thick to turn the pedals anymore.

_She’s obviously upset._

_She’s not a quitter. Just let her try for five more minutes._

_What’s the point? She can’t do it. She doesn’t know how._

The sun swells impossibly brighter, her father’s voice echoes, and she is falling.

……..

“Hey peanut, what are you doing in Daddy’s bed?”

Susan Reynolds blinked her eyes open one sticky lid at a time, feeling her heart settle in her ribcage with a thud. A cool hand covered her forehead. The dream was fading, leaving behind a simmering shame and the taste of sweat still lingering on her upper lip.

“Mama? What time is it?” Susan’s voice came out hoarse and louder than she expected in the dimness of the room.

“Late, baby.” Maria was perched on the bed beside her, coat still on, briefcase swung over her left shoulder.

“How late?” 

Maria grimaced, absently smoothing the sheets that covered her daughter. It was more of a self soothing gesture than anything else.

“Too late. What are you doing in here?” she gestured to the unmade bed.

“I couldn’t sleep, so I was waiting up for you, but then I actually did fall asleep…” Susan trailed off as she squinted at her mother’s face, the way her fingers pinched the bridge of her nose the way they always did was when she was annoyed or had a headache coming on.

“Did I do something wrong?”

Maria paused and seemed to undo the knot of annoyance from her brow.

“No, not wrong, it’s just… Your father doesn’t like when you sleep in this bed. He thinks you’re too old.”

“But I’ve been sick,” Susan pouted, playing up the crack in her voice. This drew an amused chuckle from her mother. “Besides, isn’t this your bed too, Mama?”

“You have had a bit of a nasty bug, haven’t you,” Maria replied quickly, her voice all business. “Are you still hot?” The hand that had been resting against her forehead earlier returned, searching for a temperature.

“It’s your bed too, Mama,” Susan repeated petulantly, squirming under the covers at the cold touch.

“You’re still running a low fever,” Maria added a bit louder, deliberately dodging the question. “What did James - What did Daddy give you for supper?” Supper. Susan stopped squirming and got quiet. The hunger she had mistaken for nausea nibbled at her insides twice as hard as she remembered it. She balled the blanket into two fists of fabric in her hands and looked down at them intently. A guilt she couldn't entirely place as her own swirled in her stomach. 

“Susan.” As she studied her daughter's unease, Maria’s voice went flat. “Your father came home with dinner for you, did he not?” She was fidgeting with the bridge of her nose again, her eyes closed as though praying for a less prickly version of reality to present itself. Susan huffed out a short breath and shook her head, avoiding her eyes. She played with a loose curl that had plastered itself to her forehead. Maria nodded slowly. For a moment it looked like she was about to get angry, her normally calm hands flying to fidget with her coat pockets, lips pursed. Then she settled, briefly closing her eyes before pulling out her phone, turning it over a few times in her hands. A tenuous silence stretched as she dialed, and Susan counted the number of rings she knew by heart until the machine kicked in.

“This is James. James Reynolds. You’ve reached my cell phone. I’m probably out, leave a message.” Even in the tinniness bleeding from the cell phone speakers her father’s voice was smooth and colorful, leaning towards laughter. The way it always was.

“Hey,” Maria blurted out just as the message tone sounded. “Hey, uh, it’s me.” She stood as she talked, making her way towards the hallway. The words were muffled now but still audible. “Sorry if this is a bad time. I don’t know where you are tonight. I keep telling the kid you’re working late, but it’s not enough. Are you sleeping here? Should I wait up?" She paused then and laughed, a small withering noise in the back of her throat. "Listen, forget it, I just need you to remember to pick up food when I ask. I know you’re busy, I try not to ask a lot, I know you’re figuring some things out…” Susan rolled over and feigned disinterest. 

“Mama,” she asked when she finally heard the phone click. “Did Daddy do something bad?” Maria paused, her hand on the doorway. All the frustration seemed to have seeped from her and she fidgeted, shuffling from what foot to the other.

“No, no,” she soothed. “It’s all fine, he just hasn’t been himself lately. He’s forgetful, and it’s-” Her voice trailed off and she smiled. “He has a hard job. He’s bound to be a little scattered now and again. Everything’s fine.” She took a deep breath. “I’m gonna fry us up some sandwiches, you hungry baby?”

Susan was starving, but her chest was suddenly ten times heavier. She couldn’t bring herself to budge from where she lay. She hated when her mama lied to her. She hated how big the apartment seemed with just the two of them in it. Maria was nervous in it too, she woke up early every morning and hummed too loudly. She folded and refolded her clothes. She paced and paced, busying herself with various nothings until she had to leave to catch the train. Susan always watched her and felt distantly sad, although the reason for it was just out of reach.

“Come on, you need to eat something,” her tone was sweet, coaxing.

“I feel sick,” Susan retorted, hearing the embarrassing whine in her voice. Now she was the one lying, and it stung. Maria made a small noise of resignation.

“Fine, go lay in your own bed, though. It’s better for you.”

This time Susan didn’t argue.

.......

She drifted in and out of wakefulness, watching the distorted shadows of outside cars drift from one end of the wall to the other. Her mother was humming in the kitchen, working away; she could picture her every move. She knew which pan made that distant clatter, and at the first audible sizzle she pictured without a second thought the flourish of her hand flicking a dollop of water into the hot oil.

The smell of browning bread taunted her hunger and she screwed her eyes shut against it. Maria Reynolds made the best hot sandwiches on the block. She knew it, the neighbors knew it, and if one day the governor of New York popped by for a melt neither she nor her mother would bat an eyelash. Hot meat and cheese, she’d been taught, could cure any hunger, ailment or bad mood.

She recalled one spring afternoon the previous year. She had come home from school to discover the refrigerator picked bare, and was sitting on the kitchen floor crying, having a ‘real proper fuss’ as Maria often called it.

“Now Susan,” she’d been scolded.

“Yes, Mama?”  

“You listen now,”

“I’m listening,”

“You’re a grown girl, aren’t you?”

Susan had straightened her chin, her tears slowing a little. “I’m five years old, real grown.”

“Do you know what grown girls do when they come home to no food in the house?” When Susan didn’t reply she’d tsked softly, placing a hand under her chin so their eyes met. 

“Do you think they fuss, Susan?” Susan picked at a loose thread in her jeans.

“No, ma’am.”

“What do they do then?”  
“I don’t know, Mama.”

Maria had raised an eyebrow then. “I'll tell you." She took Susan's hands in hers, squeezing them. "They calm down, they get themselves dressed nice, they walk downstairs to where the deli man works, and they ask him for a sample. Do you remember what a sample gets you?” Susan’s mouth watered. She remembered.

“Piece of ham and a few cubes of cheese. The good kind.”

“That’s right. Perfect for a five minute frying pan sandwich. Now, you remember how to ask nicely for a sample, don’t you?”

“I remember. Do you want me to go right now?”

“Only if you’re ready to dry your eyes and put some food in your belly. There are a couple of pieces of bread left in the bag, I can make us up some lunch.”

“I’m ready, Mama.” 

“Good, hurry back. Tell him Mrs. Reynolds will be over to buy  some proper meat real soon, okay?”

“Yes, Mama.”

The memory was blurring at the edges as Susan fought to keep her eyes open. The smell from the kitchen had wafted over the whole house and settled warmly. She could hear the dishes being washed, the comforting patter of her mother’s feet on the creaky floors. By the time the water had been turned off her hunger was all but forgotten as she drifted on the edge of sleep. Her fever had broken and her head swam with almost-dreams. She closed her eyes.

…..

Around midnight Maria wiped off her makeup, found a scarf for her hair, and fell into her own bed. She hadn’t bothered to get out of her work clothes, so she lay on top of the covers, uncomfortably warm but unwilling to move any further. She found herself keeping vigil as usual for her husband’s return, but the worry was more habit than devotion. When the long anticipated sound of a key finally came her body was heavy with annoyance that outweighed any relief. He was loud and clumsy as turned the corner to their room, tripping over her briefcase and cursing under his breath. She listened, prone and silent, as he removed his shoes and shirt and fumbled around in the darkness for a cigarette.

_Our daughter’s had the flu_ , she wanted to tell him. _My asthma is getting worse. W_ _here were you the last two nights?_ Quiet was easier. Rolling over to face the other wall was easier. She feigned sleep. The tenseness in her body screamed in protest but she ignored it, willing herself to go limp. Eventually he was scrabbling around at the sheets, easing himself into bed beside her with a groan. She felt his his eyes on her, tracing the shape of her, watching for the telltale rise and fall of her back that would convince him of her unconsciousness. She felt his hand rest on the small of her back as he settled down. The gesture, once endearing, now made her restless.

It was an hour or so before his breathing had evened. She dared to move then. Exhausted but wide awake, she stretched, trying to find a comfortable position. The room felt wrong now. Before it had been empty; now she was claustrophobic. The air was stale. The sound of James’ snoring set her hair on edge and she could practically feel the wrinkles setting into the well pressed fabric of her work suit. _This is not my bed_ , she realized, her brain naming the truth she’d known for a while now. Recalling Susan’s earlier confusion on the matter she was flooded with a queasiness. _It’s your bed too, Mama._  The stubborn panic attack that had been threatening for hours started to grip her throat in a vice. _Foolishness_ , she scolded herself.

Unable to quiet her nerves or her stomach, Maria rose and tiptoed down the hall, where she stopped in the doorway to her daughter’s bedroom. She stood, leaning against the wall. It must have been ten minutes or more. Heart in her throat, pressing her fingertips to the sides of her head, dragging them from her temples down to her cheeks and then her jaw. Rubbing at her eyelids. Searching for something recognizable in her own face. She half expected to find wrinkles, an old bruise, some sign of this slow descent into madness, but the skin was smooth, unyielding of its secrets. Her heart remained in her throat but her breathing began to still. Finally, when she had composed herself enough, she padded across the threshold. The roles had been reversed, she thought, feeling like a child as she gathered back the covers and slid under them. Her hand found the back of Susan’s head and cradled it protectively. The girl smelled of cold medicine and sweat. _Lord, you need a bath_ , thought Maria wearily as she rested her head next to her sleeping daughter’s shoulder. _So do I._ A laugh bubbled up from her chest before she could stop it, the darkness swallowing the harsh sound. The sleeping girl stirred but did not wake, appearing content. Safe. More than her mother could claim to feel. But the fact that Susan looked it was enough. As the first splatter of the sunrise grew, Maria Reynolds too found an uneasy rest. 

**Author's Note:**

> Feel free to give feedback and stick around for future series updates! I love the Reynolds' story and want to give Maria an independent narrative outside of Alexander (he'll pop up in a few future vignettes, but I wanted to de-center the affair somewhat from the bigger picture).


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